Okay then! This is my Bleach story. We're going to start out with a little taste of what we already have tasted for several years of our lives. NORMAL SCHOOL IN THE REAL WORLD. Just a little background thing that doesn't really tell you a whole lot about anything.
OH. And I might switch to a third person schtick if I get bored. Or if you guys tell me I should. Or if you guys don't convince me to keep it in first person past-tense whatever thingy.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one from Bleach. They belong to Tite Kubo. Pity he doesn't like sharing. I only own my OC Annalyn Vance. She later changes her name, but I'm getting ahead of myself now aren't I? Oh, and Marie and Ms. Blueberg. BUT. She is based on an actual English teacher I once had with a similar name. AND I don't own anything by Maroon 5. That's... well, their music belongs to them. Maroon 5. It belongs to- ah never mind, you get it.
OH. And I don't own Apple. That of which, iDon't mind. See what I did there? ^/^ *giggles*
SO.
ON WITH THE STORY.
Getting hit in the chest with a football sucks.
Getting hit in the chest with a football and collapsing because your heart stops working sucks even more.
Getting hit in the chest with a football, collapsing because your heart stops working, and then waking up naked?
Words have not been invented to express how much that sucks.
I was in English class.
Of course.
Ms. Blueberg, who I swear was so cool that she needed a sandwich named after her, was teaching in her very loud, very strong Bostonian accent and I? I was wondering how a woman her age, which was well over fifty, could possibly retain such a strong accent after living in California for such a long amount of time.
Ah well, some things get so ingrained...
I turned back to my volume of Bleach. Lately I had just gotten so into the story that it was driving me crazy, what with the whole battle with Aizen now being over. Now I had to wait until my favorite online manga site released chapter 429.
I have a great deal of patience, but that doesn't mean I like waiting.
And so, I had begun reading and watching the entire series over again.
Being the lazy person I was, I was only on Volume 21, but I didn't mind.
"Yo Vance! Are ya payin' attention to your work or am I gonna hafta glue your hands to ya pencil?" she said, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses.
"No Blueberg, I mean ye-... no, I'm not paying attention. I finished my work a while ago." I replied, grimacing.
She picked up my papers and scrutinized one for a moment before slapping it down on my desk to look at the next. I suddenly remembered that I had left a poem under my essay and moved to snatch it from her, but she swayed backward just out of my reach, but barely.
As her eyes moved back and forth across the page she gave me a sly smile, "And just why the heck haven't you submitted this poem to the contest yet?"
Ah yes... the high school multi-district poetry contest that spanned across the state. I'd entered it three times since I discovered it. The last time I entered I came in at a close second for my poem about musicians. As it was my Senior year in high school, I did feel a little obligated to enter it a fourth time. Why not? As Blueberg complimented my poem, I swelled with a bit of pride. The pride was soon sprinkled with concern after a few moments though.
I shook my head, "I dunno Blueberg... I just don't feel it. This one's good, but I have a feeling I could write one that's so much better. I just can't find anything that calls to me. Everything that pours onto my paper is just so jumbled... nothing feels right."
"Nerd."
Ms. Blueberg whirled around, "Okay, who said it?"
The room went quiet.
And the room stayed quiet.
Finally my teacher turned back around and the room went back to normal. "Don't worry about it 'berg..." I said quietly so no one would hear, "Being a nerd means I get my work done, and when it gets done, there are no mistakes. Ipso facto, if there are no mistakes, I can't possibly get a bad grade. I'd much rather be a nerd than a fool."
Ms. Blueberg just smiled.
After class got out I thought a bit more about what I said about being a fool. Really, there's nothing worse than being a fool. For me, being called a fool was the ultimate insult, and no matter what colorful slang term or curse word popped up next, everyone would always know what a fool was.
It was something to be ashamed of, and I was nobody's fool. Never had been, and I always made sure that I never would be. I studied harder than my siblings ever did, checking and re-checking my math (because I really sucked at math), talking with my teachers about essays and A.P. Testing, and behaving myself, especially when all I wanted to do was lash out and punch someone right in the ear.
If you think about it, it's a really good strategy because it distracts a person, what with their ears ringing and such, and it leaves the rest of their body wide open for an attack.
Sometimes I would catch myself thinking about the best way to attack someone if I ever did get into a fight, especially if that "someone" had been a total dick to me. I sighed and frowned.
'Don't be stupid Annalyn Vance. You don't fight. You don't know how. And you're too much of a coward even if you did. You don't get into fights, you don't get into trouble. Let's face it, you're a goody-two-shoes coward. You'll never do anything daring in your whole entire life.'
Really, if someone had to describe me, they'd probably come up with something like,
"She's really smart, but she doesn't stick up for herself all that much. Whenever someone bullies her she just ignores it. I don't think that's healthy at all. She needs to lay the smackdown on some of those creeps, if not physically, then at least verbally."
Oh wait... my friend Marie had said that to me at lunch two weeks ago. Huh... Most people would think something like that would have made me mad, but seeing as how she is just a very straightforward person, it didn't.
After she had said that though, it had really made me think.
'Maybe I should be more assertive.'
'Maybe I should learn how to fight.'
'I mean, if I kicked a person in the shins, they'd know it but... that's not much in the way of defending myself.'
I was wandering down to the ROTC room to chat with my buddy Pat, but the big Polish lug was nowhere to be seen. Just some guys tossing a pigskin around.
I paused and dug into my sweatshirt pocket, fishing around for my iPod. Having just gotten the new Maroon 5 CD called Hands All Over for my birthday, I had practically had the thing on repeat for the whole week since. I could only admire Adam Levine and his boys for having such wonderful musicianship.
I hummed along while Adam's lilting voice sang, "You push me, I don't have the strength to... resist or control you. So take me down, take me down..."
Gah, what a great song.
One of my friends waved me over, and with an irritated huff I switched off my music when a voice called.
"LOOK OUT!"
Suddenly a football hit me in the chest with a large thud, and pain bloomed from the impact point outward. I knew people ran to me from the periphery of my vision, but I couldn't actually see anything but the ground at my feet because I couldn't move. I then fell to my knees and landed hard on them, assuring bruises to be present later on in the day. I was choking, trying to gasp for air while panic rose in my aching, throbbing chest.
'Breathe!'
I couldn't breathe!
'Breathe!'
...
'Oh God. Please! Breathe!'
The last thing I remember was that the ground was coming up to hit my face and I thought, 'Well then. Fuck you gravity.'
Aaaaaand that's what I have so far. I mean, I have chapter two ready and waiting, but I want you guys to read this thing, digest it, let it settle withing the deepest trenches in the undeniably deepest depths of your mind. So that might take like what, an hour? A half hour? Ten minutes?
P.S. Sweet freaking jesus I love Maroon 5's song Never Gonna Leave This Bed. You guys HAVE to listen to it. Pretty please? I know that might be asking a lot but you have GOT to hear it just once!
PLEASE. Review.
Thankee sai.